THE TRASH PRINCE'S BLUEPRINTS SYSTEM

CHAPTER 4: WEEDED OUT

The heavy marble corridors of Winterkeep fell eerily quiet long before the doors of the Great Hall burst inward. Stone columns trembled. Tapestries swayed. Servants froze in half‑step, half‑scream, like actors trapped in a tableau.

Then, with a thunderous crash, Cain Vailtair Thaloria strode in, armored, armed, unrecognizable. The once‑disgraced Third Prince now wore authority like steel: a combat carbine strapped at his back, pistol at his hip, twin poison‑tipped knives sheathed at his thighs. His eyes shimmered with that predatory glint: intelligence sharpened by betrayal and ingenuity, unleashed.

A ripple of shock surged through the assembled. Only Francis “Jack” Baxter, Finance Secretary, perpetual glutton, and chronic drunk, managed a fragmented sputter.

“Your Highness… what the fuck is that for? You..” He nearly choked on the word, then mustered defiance. “You wrecked the godsdamn door!”

Cain paused mid‑step. Candles flickered, goblets rattled. He inhaled, amused.

“They paid for it. Twice now.” He glanced at the ruined paneling. “As am I.”

Baxter’s hands shook. He wiped spilled wine from his doublet, as if it could cleanse his sin. “Sit. Drink. Feast. You’ve done nothing but boil in piss‑wine since your arrival.”

Cain’s laughter was quiet, stiletto‑sharp. “A fitting metaphor.”

Beside Baxter, Isaac Bristol, Defense Secretary and church‑spy, offered Cain a mocking salute. “We missed your charming fucking presence. Sit. Eat pies with your fellow useless cunts.”

Cain stepped forward, daggered words dripping. “Are we still on that old script? The drunken prince, banished to misery, reduced to tears over roast goose?”

A tremor of unease rippled around the hall. Knights shifted in their seats, recalling familiar stories: the nights Cain passed out facefirst in the feast hall, bawling for the capital; the drunken confessions; the wasted potential.

Cain laughed again. Colder this time.

“Remember day one? You all thought me broken. Beneath you. A joke. A stain on the royal line.”

He unclipped the musket’s sling and shouldered it. Torches caught on runic etchings lining its barrel: speed, precision, fortune. In the hush, he raised it to aim.

Baxter’s eyes widened. Isaac choked on his next breath. Others watched, stunned.

Then: CRACK.

Baxter’s head, steam‑distorted by terror, exploded in a crimson bloom, spraying half‑eaten goose and red wine in a judgment of gore. The body staggered. A tableau of carnage.

A gasp erupted. Chairs screeched. Wine pooled at Cain's boots.

He stood unmoved. Smoke drifted lazily from the musket's muzzle.

“The joke,” Cain said, voice still calm, “is on you, you incompetent sacks of pigshit. You think you know weakness? You think exile broke me? This hall is still stacked with cowards and church‑spy leechers.”

He fired again, twice: one through a hedge‑knight’s eye, another through a captain’s throat. The two dropped like marionettes cut from their strings.

“Come,” Cain barked. “Stand. Face me. Or crawl away.”

Isaac stumbled backward, trembling. “You’re insane!”

Cain let the musket drop gracefully. He flipped the flintlock pistols into his hands with fluid precision. “Not insane, my lord, but uncaged.”

Bristol pointed to a trembling holy staff. He muttered incantations, bolts of white essence crackled upward, but fizzled and died. The smoke cleared mid‑spell as if repelled by some hidden force.

“Why… why isn’t it working?!” he shrieked.

Cain raised his coat sleeve. Beneath it, pow­dered glint: shimmering Umbralith threads, woven into his uniform like a shield.

“See this?” Cain’s tone was cold and elegant, like frost on fine china. “Your holy magic? Fucking worthless.”

His voice softened to a whisper that wrapped around their skulls. “Let this be evident.”

He fired three shots, rapid, rhythmic, beautiful in their brutality. Each found its mark: glass‑like clarity, no hesitation. The room stilled.

Bristol crumpled against the wall. Blood crawled in rivulets across a golden tapestry depicting Seraphiel triumphant over demons.

“Kill him!” someone shouted. Chaos erupted.

Swords drawn. Spears leveled. Armor glittered by torchlight. The Secretaries had gone from smug parasites to frightened quarry.

Cain moved—not with noble hesitation, but cold intent. He pulled triggers and slashed sinews. Flintlock cracked. Poison‑knife sliced.

Five brutal minutes passed as if distilled from eternity. When Cain lowered his weapons, the hall lay drained of life, the air thick with iron and smoke.

He reloaded mechanically while knights and staff stared in shock. A silence so broken that it merely shifted from metal to marrow.

Cain stepped forward, boots quiet on the marbled floor. His gaze glazed with frost.

“Your masters are dead,” he said. “Spies. Thieves. Cowards. Now, you…”

His icy glare swept across them. “Serve me. Or fall.”

He paused.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

A knight, Sir Barnaby Spencer, crumpled, dropping to his knees. “We yield! Mercy, Your Highness.”

The others laid down their arms. Clear eyes flickered at Cain. Fear, respect, something new: allegiance?

Cain smirked, a dark curvature. “Good boys.”

He glided over to a twitching corpse and kicked it lightly, redirecting attention. “Throw them to the beasts at Shadowvale border. Let their bodies serve as feast. They starved us while fattening themselves.”

Barnaby bowed, voice hollow. “It will be done.”

Cain turned to Sir Lucas Saville, who wore shock like an ill‑fitting coat. “Walk with me.”

Inside Cain’s private solar, torchlight danced across maps strewn over oaken tables, ledgers bound in iron‑clasped leather, and blueprints covered in exotic runes. The typewriter near the window still glowed steel‑cold in the dim light.

Lucas spoke, voice trembling with a warrior’s sense of new allegiance. “They will retaliate, Crown Prince, Lady Blackmoor, the Holy Church…”

Cain closed the distance, standing tall. “Let them come.”

Lucas swallowed. “What then?”

Cain slammed a sheet onto the typewriter. Keys clicked like war drums.

“TO ALL RESIDENTS OF FROSTMARK PROVINCE, BY ORDER OF YOUR LORD PROTECTOR, CAIN VAILTAIR THALORIA…”

He typed summons, posting notices in villages, calling craftsmen, soldiers, mages to Winterkeep’s gates.

“Only the best,” Cain said, eyes flashing. “Advertise that loyalty will be rewarded. Wealth offered. Power given.”

He affixed his wax seal: a frost serpent coiled around a broken crucifix.

Lucas touched the document with reverence. “Some won’t swear unless paid.”

Cain strode to a lockbox and flung it open. Gold spilled. He caught a coin, weighed it.

“Give them this,” he said. “Call it a gift. No strings, just loyalty.”

He clasped Lucas’s shoulder. “Deliver these at once. I want them whispering my name in every hamlet before the Church even smells the wind of change.”

Lucas saluted. “As you command.”

Cain closed the solar door behind him. Alone, he exhaled, fury slipping away like smoke.

He tapped the crystal on his desk. The Illegally‑Modified Blueprint System glowed—a hologram in sapphire light.

“ SYSTEM ONLINE

CURRENT CONSTRUCTS: 63%

NEXT PHASE: Tactical Airships | Mobile Foundries | Arcane Dampener Beacons “

Cain’s fingers danced across the projection. Blueprints shimmered: rotating cannons, ironclad carriages, mechanized foundries.

“Should’ve built steam carriages earlier” he muttered. “Make the cleanup easier.”

He conjured recruitment posters, mage‑proof armor designs, siege‑engine schematics.

“Vision,” he whispered. “Power breeds belief.”

“I’ll give them weapons no one dares build.” He grinned. “A future worth fighting for.”

Outside, Winterkeep’s steps dripped with blood. Inside, a prince repaved his fate, no birthright, no blessings, just vengeance, innovation, and will.